The Witness
by anotherredhead
Summary: As Matt prepares to testify against a wealthy killer, he worries that justice will not be done. But nothing had prepared him for what was actually to come.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer:** I am not a doctor or lawyer, and I don't play one on TV. I try my best to make details accurate and relevant to the time period, but for the sake of the plot I might not always succeed. This story was inspired by my recent experience as a juror in a trial where the entire case rested on the credibility of a single witness.

The Witness

Chapter 1

"Anticipation"

Matt Dillon tossed and turned in his cot, his mind cluttered with images of the pint-sized man who had become such a giant thorn in his side. The irony might have amused him had the situation not been so serious. He listened as the clock ticked away seconds in the quiet of the night, wondering how many remained until his 8am stage to Hays. Rarely did he have trouble sleeping after a long day at work, but he had more on his mind than usual. The trial at which he would be the star—the _only_ —witness had been postponed so many times he had wondered if it would ever take place. Both to his relief and his dread, it was finally scheduled to begin.

Testifying at trials was a common part of his job and not something he normally lost sleep over. In the early days it had almost been exciting, seeing the judicial process in action, knowing that he was doing his part to keep dangerous men off the streets. But the luster had quickly worn off, and it had become just one in a sizeable list of duties he was bound by oath to perform to the best of his ability. He had long ago been forced to make peace with the reality that he was frequently the driving force in sending accused criminals to their deaths. It didn't mean he had to like it—quite the contrary, more often than not he hated it. Death was depressing, it was final, and it was to be mourned, whether it unfairly struck innocent people or was legally administered by the state. But as long as he followed the law, he could look in the mirror at the end of the day and respect the man looking back.

Matt had dealt with a lot of unsavory characters in his career, but few made his skin crawl like the defendant in this case. Byron Krug was born the third child and second son of a wealthy railroad magnate in Hays City by the name of Thomas Krug. The oldest, Rebecca, was a model child who had the misfortune of being born a girl. Thomas loved his daughter, but he desperately wanted a boy—someone to carry on the family name and someday take over the business he had worked so hard to build. When Gordon came along two years later he thought his dream had come true, but it didn't take long to recognize that something was terribly wrong. Having a bright girl who was developing normally, the contrast was stark. Both physically and mentally, Gordon lagged behind his sister in every way, and as he grew into a young boy it became apparent that Thomas' worst fear had been realized—his son was a dullard. He would likely never marry and have children, and he certainly would not be able to take over the family business.

It took over five years for Mary Krug to become pregnant again. Even the best doctors money could buy were unable to figure out why she had trouble conceiving, but when it finally happened Thomas was ecstatic. He ate, drank, and slept the new child, refusing to consider that it would not be a boy. He bought boy clothing, collected boy playthings, made lists of boy names. That his wife was sickly and having a difficult pregnancy seemed to escape his notice. When she finally went into labor, it was both a joyous and tragic day—she gave birth to a healthy boy, but she died in the process.

In his grief, Thomas resolved that this son would be something special, a fitting tribute to his late mother. He named the boy Byron after Lord Byron, Mary's favorite poet and an example of greatness. Though all the children had a privileged upbringing, Byron was especially indulged. The only thing he ever lacked in life was discipline, and he eventually grew into the type of person one might expect under the circumstances despite his father's good intentions. He was spoiled, selfish, lazy, and temperamental, traits that endeared him to few friends and even fewer women. He was, however, very smart, and that bode well for the future of the family business. Thomas convinced himself that Byron's petulant ways and youthful indiscretions were typical for a boy his age, something he would surely outgrow.

When Byron was nineteen, his father died unexpectedly of a heart attack. In his will, Thomas left Byron the company and the entirety of his estate, with instructions to dole out money to Gordon in amounts he could handle. For all his faults, Byron did look after his big brother, who worshipped the ground he walked on. Rebecca was left nothing, knowing it was not a rebuke from her father but rather a reflection of his antiquated views about women. Unmotivated by money, she had distanced herself from her patriarchal family after marrying a journalist from Kinsley whom she had met, ironically, when he was covering a story about her father's fortune. Although she was very happy with her husband and completely unsurprised by the will, the unfairness had stung her deeply, especially since Byron was such an ass.

Byron wasted no time enjoying his fortune. He had little interest in the company beyond the money it generated, figuring he could pay other people to run it and reap the rewards he deserved. Though barely five feet four inches tall, with a slight frame and decidedly unattractive features, he fancied himself as quite the ladies' man. He pursued women relentlessly, and while there were plenty available in Hays for a price, none was willing to give him everything he wanted. The perfect woman—beautiful, obedient, and impressed by his status if not his stature— _must_ be out there, if not in Hays then somewhere better.

And so it was in that frame of mind that Byron had fatefully traveled to Dodge City looking for some action. Perhaps the Krug curse, as he was apt to call the mysterious phenomenon that blinded women to his desirability, had a limited radius. Dodge had more saloons, gambling, and women than Hays, and his odds would surely be better there.

Linda Harrison was the unfortunate recipient of Byron's Dodge experiment. It was only her second day working at The Long Branch, and she was already beginning to wonder if she was saloon girl material. Introverted and inexperienced, she had taken the job in rebellion against her strict widower father as proof she could make it in the world on her own. Kitty was hesitant to hire her, but she was short on girls at the moment and Linda had seemed so determined. On her first shift, Linda's standoffish demeanor had either irritated men or caused them to ignore her altogether. And now, during the slowest part of the day with few customers and no excuses, she found herself trapped at a back table with a diminutive, obnoxious man who would not take no for an answer.

Linda had tried to be polite, but it was obvious subtlety would not work with Byron Krug. When she had finally ordered him to leave her alone, he had whipped out a pistol and waved it around, asking if she knew who he was, looking ridiculously like a child playing cowboy. With Sam was downstairs retrieving a barrel and Kitty at the bank making a quick deposit, Linda was the only employee in the place and understandably frightened. That was when Hud Brimley, unarmed and equally frightened, ran out of the saloon to fetch Marshal Dillon.

Matt was used to occasional disturbances at all the saloons, from crooked card games to drunken brawls, and he wasn't sure what to expect when Hud told him there was trouble brewing at The Long Branch. He didn't stop to ask questions—seconds could make the difference between life and death—so he simply hurried over to check it out. When he arrived, the man he later learned to be Byron Krug was aiming his gun at Walt Frazier, a businessman merely passing through Dodge and the only other patron currently in the saloon. Walt had merely been trying to help a young lady in trouble, and Krug was yelling that he had warned Frazier to stay out of it. Matt quickly drew and ordered Krug to drop his weapon, but it was too late. The gunshot hit the unarmed Good Samaritan in the chest, and he fell to the floor like a rag doll as Linda screamed. Krug then turned toward the marshal, who got his shot off first and hit the killer in the lower abdomen.

Byron lost a lot of blood but Doc was able to save him, knowing he was likely just delaying the inevitable. It wasn't the first time Doc had patched a man up so he could face his own execution in good health, and the irony didn't escape him. Like Matt, he had a sworn duty which he was bound to uphold no matter how personally distasteful it may sometimes be. It was a shared character trait that had fostered a deep friendship between the two.

Byron Krug would have been just the latest in a long list of criminals Matt had arrested, destined to become at most a footnote in the history of 19th century crime, if not for one thing—money. He had obscene amounts of it, and everyone knew there was a different kind of justice available to people who could afford it. He had hired Gregory Hardy, the best and most expensive criminal lawyer in Kansas, to defend him. Hardy was a weasel of a man with slicked back hair and a thin moustache, and he wasted no time in proving why he was worth every penny. Byron languished in the Dodge jail all of two days, receiving a transfer to a hospital in Hays after Hardy filed an emergency motion questioning the state of his health and quality of his medical care. Next he secured a change of venue to Hays due to hardship on a dimwitted brother who depended on him, giving Hardy a much more favorable jury pool that wasn't as familiar with Matt Dillon's reputation. The trial was subsequently postponed several times as Hardy chased down his own witnesses and experts, and everything Byron had said to Matt and Doc after his injury was ruled inadmissible after Hardy presented psychological research showing the unreliability of statements made under physical duress. His coup de grace was the striking of Hud Brimley from the witness list after discovering that Hud's uncle had long ago worked for Thomas Krug and been fired after a dispute. It was a weak connection that Hud wasn't even aware of, but it was enough to convince the right judge that his testimony would be prejudicial.

That left Matt Dillon and Linda Harrison to provide the state's case, and the state had a slight problem—no one could find Linda Harrison. She had fled The Long Branch after recounting to Matt the traumatic events leading up to the shooting and had not been seen since. Her father claimed she had not come home and he didn't know where she was, but his story seemed very suspect. A struggling farmer raising four children, he suddenly had a brand new John Deere plow and an unlikely story about where he had gotten it. Matt suspected that he had been paid handsomely to send his daughter away, perhaps to an out of town relative, until the trial was over. However, despite his best efforts at tracing the money and locating Linda, he had come up empty. The state's case against the defendant had suddenly become Matthew Dillon vs. Byron Krug, one man's word against another's. In a rare loss for Hardy, the judge ruled that the exceptions to the hearsay rule applied and Matt could relate Linda's eyewitness details in his testimony. The conditions for exception were that the witness in question was unavailable, and the person to whom the witness spoke was deemed credible. Even Hardy knew it was a stretch to challenge Matt Dillon's credibility, and he didn't fight the judge's ruling. He would have to rely on other tricks.

So on the eve of this journey to Hays, where his testimony alone would determine whether a guilty man could buy an acquittal, Matt's stomach was in knots. If Hardy managed to trip him up, a killer could go free. It was that very real possibility that kept him counting the ticks of the clock for most of the night.

TBC


	2. Chapter 2

The Witness

Chapter 2

"Stricken"

Kitty Russell sat on the edge of her neatly made bed, motionless except for the slight tremor in her hands. The nausea seemed to get worse every time she moved, so she willed herself to remain as still as possible. She blinked several times as the dresser mirror danced in front of her face over and over again, until she could stand it no more and closed her eyes.

It was a sensation not unlike a night of extreme overindulgence at the bar, something she did not experience often but was nonetheless familiar with. But she had consumed no alcohol this night, not even one glass of beer despite many offers from a saloon full of rowdy cattle drivers eager to enjoy the paycheck that finally came after weeks of hard work. She had directed them to the girls who specialized in encouraging such men to empty their pockets, a job Kitty had done for years before scrimping and saving her way into the respectable business world. This particular night, she could not have enjoyed a drink if she had wanted one.

Her symptoms had started early that afternoon, just a few hours after she sent Matt Dillon off to Hays with a proper, private goodbye kiss in his office. She hated when he was gone, but this time she had no objections—she was happy to see him travel as far as it took to convict that puny bastard Byron Krug. She knew it wasn't her fault, but Kitty couldn't help feeling partially responsible for what had happened. Walt Frazier was an innocent husband and father, and he had lost his life in her establishment. What if she had listened to her intuition and not hired Linda? What if she hadn't left to go to the bank when she did? Things might have been different. Of course hindsight was crystal clear, but it had weighed on her conscious and she was just as anxious about the trial as Matt. He had promised to wire her as soon as it was over, good news or bad.

Her nausea and dizziness had been manageable at first, and she suspected she had a random stomach ailment which would pass through her system quickly as such illnesses were likely to do. But this one was holding on for dear life and getting worse by the minute. She had managed to avoid Doc, knowing that he would hover over her like a mother hen and try to keep her from working. She was the sole owner of The Long Branch now and couldn't afford to be laid up in bed, not on a busy night like this. But the dead didn't need money, and she was beginning to feel as though that was her fate unless she got some help, and soon.

There was no way she could make it to Doc's office now. An hour ago she had managed to climb the staircase, one step at a time, holding the rail with both hands and slowly pulling her body to the next level. Normally Sam or one of the girls would have noticed such a sight, but this night she got lost in the sea of unsteady bodies that filled the room. She had barely made it to her bathtub before the glass of water she had forced herself to drink earlier in the evening came up in a warm stream. She felt temporary relief, but a wave of dizziness soon followed and she had been trying to find a tolerable position on the bed ever since.

The quiet told her it was past closing time, and Sam was likely sweeping the floor or washing glasses. She didn't want to alarm him, but she had to get his attention. She took a deep breath and stood up, putting her hand to her mouth as her stomach began to churn. There was nothing left to expel, but dry heaves were just as miserable. With the room spinning she took three long steps and threw herself at the door, catching the knob as she went down on one knee. She cracked open the door and called out in a weak voice. "Sam!"

She heard glasses clanking but no reply. He obviously hadn't heard her. She swallowed hard and crawled on her hands and knees into the hallway. "Sam!" she called louder, and this time her faithful friend and employee looked up in her direction. He hurried to the bottom of the steps with a look of concern.

"Miss Kitty, what's wrong?"

"I'm okay Sam," she assured him, realizing that her position on the floor indicated otherwise. "I seem to have taken a bit ill, and I need Doc. Can you go get him for me?"

"Right away," he said, and he meant it. Sam rushed out of the saloon with his apron on and a drying cloth in one hand. Kitty exhaled and lowered her body all the way to the floor, resting her head on her arm. Within minutes Doc was literally running through the batwing doors, Sam on his heels. He had not bothered to change out of his striped pajamas and cleared the steps like a man much younger to get to his patient. He knew that Kitty Russell would not have sent for him at this hour unless it was an emergency.

Doc set his medical bag on the floor and knelt beside her petite frame, gently putting his hand on her forehead. "Kitty," he said softly as her eyes fluttered. "What's wrong, Kitty? What happened to you?"

"I don't know," she muttered. "Just sick. So sick…"

"Sam, let's get her in bed," Doc directed, knowing that the large barkeep would have little trouble with the task. Sam nodded and scooped her up in his arms, effortlessly carrying her the short distance to her room. She moaned as he gently laid her on the bed.

"Does anything hurt?" Doc asked as he pulled out his stethoscope. Kitty shook her head. "No pain…just sick."

"What do you mean?" he pressed. "Sick how?"

"Dizzy, throwing up," she responded breathlessly. "I've never felt this bad."

Doc furrowed his brow and placed the stethoscope on her chest. Her heart was beating unusually slowly and she had an arrhythmia. He checked her hands and they were ice cold, a sign of poor circulation. He then listened to her inhale and exhale several times, determining that there was no fluid in her lungs. He had noted when he touched her forehead that she wasn't feverish. It could be some kind of common stomach illness, but he rarely saw one take down a young, healthy person this quickly and severely.

"When did you start having symptoms?" he asked her.

"Around noon," she answered.

"And you're just now telling me?" he chided, sounding angrier than he intended. Doc had little patience for stoic neglect of medical problems, especially with the people he loved.

"Please don't yell at me," Kitty requested pitifully. "It wasn't that bad when it started. I didn't think it was anything serious."

Doc saw her eyes fill with tears, and his gruff demeanor disappeared. It pained him to see her like this.

"I'm sorry," he offered genuinely. "I just can't help worrying about you. It's my job."

Kitty managed a weak smile. It _was_ his job, but there was no doubt that she held a special place in his heart. His concern was not merely professional, and that was just fine with her.

Doc looked up at Sam, who had been silently and anxiously watching his examination. Doc appreciated his help, but they needed some privacy.

"I'll take it from here, Sam," he said tactfully. "I'll be sure to let you know if she needs anything."

"Sure thing," Sam replied in his quiet, gentle giant kind of way. "You take care of yourself and feel better soon, Miss Kitty."

"I will," Kitty promised, not at all convinced that she would.

Sam exited the room and Doc scrubbed at his moustache. "Kitty, I need to ask you something. Please understand that I wouldn't ask this if I didn't absolutely have to, but you're very sick right now and it's important that I know everything before I try and diagnose this. Do you understand that?" Kitty nodded.

Doc looked serious and reluctantly continued. "Is there any chance you are pregnant?"

They both knew he hadn't asked without good reason. She and Matt Dillon had been lovers for four years now, and despite the town gossip, Doc was the only person in town who truly knew the nature of their relationship. Kitty confided in him whenever she needed a friend's perspective, and Matt didn't deny his feelings for Kitty on the occasions that Doc felt the urge to offer some unsolicited advice on love. That was probably the closest the introspective marshal was ever going to come to actually talking to anyone about it.

Kitty was not offended and shook her head no. "You're sure?" Doc verified. It was rare for pregnancy to make a woman this sick, but he had seen it happen.

"I'm sure," she confirmed. "I just finished my cycle."

Doc nodded, relieved yet anxious. Pregnancy would certainly have been an unwelcome complication for the couple, but he would have known what he was dealing with. He had a vague, uneasy feeling about the nature of this illness.

"When did you last eat?" he wondered.

"This morning. Matt and I had breakfast at Delmonico's before he left for Hays."

Doc nodded, remembering running into the couple as they were headed there. It was awfully early for Kitty to be up and about, but she wouldn't miss seeing Matt off to Hays. "Did you notice anything tasting strange? I mean worse than usual," he clarified. They always joked about the food at Delmonico's, but food poisoning was a real possibility anywhere.

"No, I had eggs and toast and everything tasted fine," she recalled. "I felt funny and wasn't hungry for lunch, and by dinner time I was completely nauseated."

"Well, you're dehydrated for sure, and that's probably adding to the dizziness," he surmised. "Let me get you a glass of water."

Kitty made a face, remembering where her last glass of water had ended up. "I don't know if I could keep it down, Doc."

"Let's give it a try," he insisted. "I have some powders here that just might settle your stomach, and if you can stay hydrated I guarantee you'll start to feel better."

Kitty reluctantly agreed. At this point, she was willing to try almost anything. Doc unscrewed a small jar and measured out the crushed anise seed, mixing it with a glass of water he poured from a pitcher on her dresser. She was parched, and despite her aversion to ingesting anything at the moment she had to force herself to take small sips instead of thirst quenching gulps. Doc helped her steady the glass as she drank.

"How do you feel?" he asked after she finished the glass.

"Not any worse," she declared optimistically.

Doc chuckled. "Well, I did take an oath not to make my patients sicker. I'm glad I'm still holding up my end of the bargain on that. At least so far."

"Thanks for coming, Doc," she said gratefully, noticing for the first time how tired he looked. "I've kept you up way past your bedtime, I think you should go on back and get some sleep."

"And leave you here alone in this condition? Not a chance," he scolded. "You couldn't even get up off the floor when I got here, what's going to happen if you need help in the middle of the night and Sam's not here to come and get me?"

"But you—"

"But nothing, young lady," he interrupted, eyeing the wooden trunk at the end of her bed. "Are there extra blankets in there? I'm going to make myself a place to sleep over here by the window, and I don't want to hear any arguments."

Kitty sighed. "There's a pillow and a couple of quilts in there. Help yourself." She sounded resigned but was secretly relieved. Doc was right, she was in no condition to spend the night alone.

"Well that's more like it," he said, satisfied with her quick compliance. He opened the trunk and pulled out his makeshift bedding as Kitty rolled over and hugged the extra pillow. It smelled faintly of musk and for a few seconds she forgot how sick she felt, comforted by his scent. She missed him but was glad he was not here to see the ugliness of whatever had done this to her. He wouldn't be home for several days—maybe she would be better by then.

Doc finished arranging his covers and checked his patient one more time. She felt clammy and still showed no signs of fever. He retrieved the small wash basin from her dresser and set it next to her bed in case she needed it. Still fully clothed, he knew getting her into a nightgown would be difficult and uncomfortable, so he decided to leave her be.

"Promise me you will wake me up if you need anything," he told her. Eyes closed, she nodded her understanding. With that, Doc turned down the lamp and settled on the floor for what he anticipated would be a restless night.

TBD


	3. Chapter 3

The Witness

Chapter 3

"The Journey to Hays"

 _Earlier That Day…_

It was a beautiful autumn afternoon as the Kansas prairie scrolled by Matt Dillon's window. The stage was not quite halfway through its long and bumpy journey, but he was grateful to have his backside resting on a real seat instead of a saddle. He had made this trip so many times he recognized every tree between Dodge City and Hays. Usually he was on horseback, escorting prisoners on trips that were as unpredictable as the nature of the criminal mind. He had been knifed, shot, beaten, kicked, even bitten by desperate men who made the often fatal mistake of thinking they could take him. But dead or alive, he had never failed to deliver a prisoner.

Stagecoach trips were an entirely different experience. The interior was cramped for someone of his stature and the bench seat had little padding, but it was luxurious and relaxing compared to his trips on Buck. He could do anything he wanted without fear of escapes or attacks—read a book, take a nap, talk to a traveling companion. Not this one, apparently, as the only other passenger had a large hat pulled over most of his face and had been in a deep sleep for the entire trip. Matt shifted his weight and tried to stretch his legs just an inch more without disturbing him. He looked at the man's crisp, clean suit and wondered how his own formal attire was holding up in that small suitcase. He only had the one outfit, a stuffy white shirt he wore with a light gray jacket, black western bow tie, and dark gray dress pants. Kitty jokingly referred to them as his "court-ing clothes," a play on the fact that they served double duty as his court uniform and nice date apparel. She never failed to tell him how handsome he looked in the ensemble, and he never got tired of hearing it. He hoped it wouldn't look too wrinkled tomorrow because it was all he had to wear.

With a sleeping passenger and a book that didn't hold his attention, Matt's mind wandered to the trial. Kitty had helped him prepare as best she could by listening to his testimony and anticipating ways Hardy might try to trip him up. Matt had not so jokingly told her she would make a fine lawyer herself if the profession tolerated women. She certainly liked to argue a point to death and could be quite convincing, the most impressive example being the way she had persuaded a stubborn marshal to abandon his long held belief that he couldn't have both a badge and a lover. Of course, one look from those sapphire eyes and she could convince him that the sky was green, so perhaps he wasn't the best judge of her skills. But he figured if he was on trial facing a jury full of men, he'd want her on his side.

Matt had nothing against lawyers in general. The Constitution guaranteed all men—even vile men like Byron Krug—the right to counsel. He wouldn't be much of a lawman if he didn't respect both sides of it. But Hardy didn't just represent his client, he stacked the deck and twisted words like a pretzel so a lie sounded like the truth and the truth a lie. It was all fluff and bluff but made for an impressive spectacle and sometimes worked, even in cases that seemed ironclad. Dig into the life of an eye witness and it was often easy to find a weak spot to highlight. "You are a heavy drinker, is that correct?" he might ask. "How many drinks did you have that evening?" Whether the answer was one or ten, a good lawyer knew how to create reasonable doubt. Matt knew it was even less difficult to plant the seed that a woman who works in a saloon for the sole purpose of getting men to spend money on her cannot, by definition, be "harassed" by a man who comes into her establishment to do just that. While Matt Dillon was experienced on the witness stand, he was unexperienced with the kinds of dirty tricks that made Gregory Hardy a famous name in Kansas. And knowing the character of Byron Krug, he would surely be demanding that his high priced lawyer use every one at his disposal.

Matt tried to suppress a yawn and rubbed his eyes, his sleepless night starting to catch up with him. He was tired of thinking about the trial, and his mind drifted to something much more pleasant—that goodbye kiss in his office this morning, and the one that would surely greet him when he returned. How did he get so lucky? He had never enjoyed such an easy, comfortable relationship with a woman. He couldn't help but think of how much he wished she was sitting across from him right now instead of Rip Van Winkle over there. How he would love to take her on a vacation, somewhere exciting like St. Louis or her native New Orleans. Somewhere they could be just another pair of nameless faces in the crowd, no gossip, no hiding, no pretending that he had not violated the number one rule of a career lawman—never fall in love. Four years later he was still not fully comfortable with the concept, quite possibly would never lose that uneasy feeling that she might be in danger if his vulnerabilities were exposed. It had been the first time he had ever listened to his heart over his gut, and despite his trepidation, not once had he regretted it.

In a little over a week, the biggest social event Dodge had seen in a very long time would be taking place. Marvin Tatem's daughter Grace was _finally_ getting married at the ripe age of twenty-five. She was a sweet but plain girl, and Marvin had all but given up hope that she would avoid spinsterhood. When a man asked for her hand in marriage—a good man, no less—Marvin was so happy he invited half the town to the wedding. There would be music and dancing and plenty of food prepared by Marvin's wife Alice, one of the best cooks in Ford County. Kitty had bought a lovely new dress for the occasion and was very much looking forward to it, hoping her date would not be Chester or Doc. She had learned not to count on it, though. Matt knew that life with him wasn't always easy, the long absences and interrupted plans, and she rarely complained. This trial would be over in a couple of days, and no matter how it turned out, he vowed to be home to escort the most beautiful woman in Dodge to the party of the year. That happy thought distracted him from his worries for the remainder of the trip.

TBC


	4. Chapter 4

The Witness

Chapter 4

"Mystery in Dodge"

Doc Adams folded the crook of his arm over his eyes as the first ray of morning sun peeked through the window. Had he slept at all? He wasn't sure. He had been up and down several times throughout the night, twice just to check on Kitty and three other times that he remembered when he heard her retch. The powders he had given her had ended up in the basin along with the glass of water and any gastric juices she had left.

He turned over and immediately felt a shooting pain from the kink in his back. The quilt didn't provide much padding against the hard floor, and he wasn't as young as he used to be. He remembered a time when he could sleep on a cold ground using a log as a pillow, but that was many years ago. Still, he knew he felt infinitely better than Kitty and wasn't about to complain.

Doc looked down at his striped pajamas and figured if he was going to get home to change clothes, now was the time. He didn't want tongues wagging at the sight of the town doctor sneaking out of The Long Branch on the morning after Matt Dillon had left town. It was a ridiculous notion and he personally didn't care what people thought about him, but he did care what they thought about Kitty. She put up with enough nonsense from pious hypocrites and busy bodies with nothing better to do without him adding more fodder for gossip. He checked on her one last time, finally sleeping peacefully, before creeping out the door and making his way back to the office.

He was running out of ideas and decided to consult his library of medical literature to help him figure out what was wrong with Kitty. He had treated many illnesses and diseases, but her specific list of symptoms—and particularly the lack of others—did not fit any that immediately came to mind. Was there some kind of contamination in the water supply? That could explain the sudden, violent onset of nausea, but no one else had been affected to his knowledge so it didn't seem likely. He had even taken a drink of the water from her pitcher with no ill effect. After putting on his characteristic three piece suit, he sat at his desk and began skimming volumes of the _American Journal of the Medical Science._ It was the most comprehensive, up to date collection of papers on medical conditions and treatments available, and he had every issue.

An hour and a half later, he woke up with his head resting on top of the stack. He vaguely remembered thumbing past a paper on cholera before the words started running together and he was overcome by exhaustion. The nap had done him good, but his stomach was growling and he felt a little weak. He wanted to get back to Kitty as soon as possible, but he needed sustenance if he was going to remain sharp enough to figure this out. Delmonico's would be open for breakfast by now, and he decided to see if Chester wanted to join him. He toyed with the idea of stopping by the Telegraph office to send Matt a wire but ultimately decided against it. There was nothing he could do, and Kitty might recover before he got back. No need to add to his worries just yet.

Doc checked his vest pocket and headed toward the jail. He had learned long ago that it was a good idea to have plenty of money when you asked Chester to join you for a meal. Doc usually made a point to provide the appropriate amount of bluster over Chester's convenient lack of funds, but truth was he didn't mind. Chester was hardworking and fiercely loyal, and supplementing his meager wages with a meal or a beer now and then was a small price to pay for that kind of friend.

Doc entered the jail, expecting to see Chester making coffee or sweeping the floor as he was typically doing at this hour. Instead, he found him lying on the cot across the room, still asleep. Doc furrowed his brow and called out to him.

"Well for goodness sake, Chester, is this what you do when Matt's away?"

Chester stirred, but just barely. He was usually a light sleeper and early riser, and Doc had a feeling something was wrong. He quickly made his way to the cot, almost stepping in the partially dried puddle on the floor next to it.

"Chester, are you sick?" he asked, annunciating each word to the man who seemed barely conscious. Chester slowly opened his eyes, a pained expression on his face.

"Doc, I don't reckon I've ever been any sicker," he responded with some effort. Doc felt his forehead and noted that he was cool and clammy, like Kitty. His hands were cold.

"When did it start? What are your symptoms?" Doc fired in rapid succession. This did not seem like a coincidence, and it made him anxious.

Chester licked his dry lips and swallowed before answering. "I don't know what time, Doc, but I woke up in the middle of the night and thought my insides were gonna plum come outta my body. I tried to get up, but I was so blame dizzy I couldn't walk. I've just been lyin' here prayin' for the good lord to take me ever since."

Doc sat on the edge of the cot. He felt Chester's glands and then pressed all around his stomach. "Does that hurt?"

"No," Chester answered. "Don't nothin' hurt, but I sure feel bad."

"What was the last thing you ate?" Doc wondered. If it was Delmonico's there might be actually something to go on.

Chester had to think for a moment. "Well, me and Martha Beckham went on a picnic today, and she brought a basket of her homemade fried chicken. It was real good, Doc, I don't think there was nothin' wrong with it."

There went that theory. Doc unhooked the glasses from around his ears and rubbed his eyes. That nap had helped, but he wasn't exactly feeling refreshed.

"Do you think you could drink a glass of water?" he asked, hoping this patient might tolerate some hydration.

Chester frowned and shook his head. "Oh my goodness no. I cain't even think about it. I mean, all night long it just a'kept…well, you know. "

Doc nodded sympathetically. "All right then, you just stay right here and rest," he ordered, as if Chester could do anything else. "I have some work to do and then I'll be back to check on you."

"Thanks Doc," Chester said weakly before closing his eyes. Doc replaced his glasses and slowly shook his head to himself, hardly believing what had transpired over the past several hours. He had two very sick patients, no idea what was wrong with them, no medication to offer, and no indication of how serious this might be. Back to the books.

TBC


	5. Chapter 5

The Witness

Chapter 5

"The Trial"

Matt awoke from a deep slumber, temporarily forgetting where he was. He blinked a few times and focused on the busy pattern of pink and yellow flowers surrounded by giant green leaves. He stayed at the same hotel every time he came to Hays, and they hadn't changed the wallpaper in years.

Had he really only gotten here yesterday? It seemed like much longer ago. His mind was still foggy, but he could already tell that he had finally gotten the rest he needed. He enjoyed a slow stretch, relishing the room after so many hours on that stage. When his feet had finally hit the ground in Hays, he had put both hands on his lower back and grimaced, feeling as though he had been shipped there in a small crate. His first order of business had been a hot bath that both soothed his aching joints and relaxed him before bed. After carefully unfolding his suit clothes and hanging them in the closet, he had fallen into bed and known nothing until morning.

It was a big day, and despite a lack of appetite brought on by nerves, Matt made himself eat a small breakfast consisting of a scrambled egg and several cups of coffee. The egg sat in his stomach like a brick, but the coffee tasted good-much better than he'd had at Delmonico's yesterday, and infinitely better than what he usually had every morning in the office. He left the hotel restaurant feeling like a new man. Gone was the stubble from his day of travel, and he smelled like musk instead of prairie dust.

The courthouse was only a few blocks away, and Matt decided to make a stop along the way since he had left himself plenty of time. He had passed a jewelry store on Second Street during his walk to the hotel, and it occurred to him that he could find Kitty something pretty to go with that new dress. He couldn't afford anything expensive, but she didn't seem to care as long as it was from him. Her collection was now peppered with sensibly priced cameos, earrings, and necklaces that she typically favored over the more expensive pieces.

The Hays Courthouse was a grand, impressive structure that had been completed two years earlier. With two floors containing six different trial rooms filled with spacious desks and rows of mahogany benches, it was a far cry from the small building that previously served Ellis County's judicial needs. The receptionist directed Matt to Room 6 upstairs, and in the hallway he found the familiar, friendly face of state's attorney Frederick Barnes. All other parties were already in the courtroom, but Fred had waited outside to greet his star witness. The two shook hands and exchanged pleasantries before moving on to the more serious matter at hand.

"I'd be lying if I told you I wasn't worried," Barnes began. "I've been up against Hardy before, and he's good. Damn good."

Matt nodded. "I know Fred, but the facts are on our side. I have to think a jury will see that." His tone indicated more confidence than he felt.

"From your lips to God's ear," the prosecutor replied. "We have one other thing on our side—from what I've heard, Judge Moorehead is not impressed with dog and pony shows. I wish he had been assigned to the case earlier." Barnes was clearly referring to Hardy's successful pre-trial motions, which had caused rumblings and controversy throughout the legal community. Some considered them ridiculous, while others considered them pure genius. Moorehead was a new judge to Ellis County with a reputation for being tough but fair, and with any luck he wouldn't be dazzled by bullshit. Barnes quickly checked his pocket watch and anxiously snapped it shut. "It's time, Matt. Let's do this."

As was the rule with witnesses, Matt remained in the hallway until he was called. All rose as the Honorable Joseph T. Moorehead took his place at the large, imposing bench at the head of the room.

"Mr. Barnes, are you ready to call your first witness?" he asked in a formal tone.

"Yes, Your Honor," he responded. "The state calls Marshal Matt Dillon to the stand."

The bailiff opened the door and Matt began walking up the narrow aisle between the rows of benches. He thought he heard a gasp from somewhere in the courtroom but couldn't tell from whom. Maybe it was his imagination. The lawman took his familiar place in front of the witness box and raised his hand.

"Do you solemnly swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God?"

"I do," he promised. Matt pulled the chair back far enough to sit comfortably and folded his hands on his lap. He heard whispering and instinctively focused his attention in the direction of the sound. Byron Krug was clearly agitated as he addressed his brother, sitting in the front row behind the defendant's table. Gordon Krug looked confused, while Byron was white as a sheet.

Matt was confused as well. It was almost as if they were surprised to see him, yet they had obviously known for some time that the case was proceeding with him as the only witness. What were they talking about?

"Mr. Hardy, please instruct your client to be quiet," the judge ordered sternly. Hardy whispered something to Byron and the man reluctantly scooted away from his brother and silently faced the judge. Gordon Krug continued to look puzzled.

Frederick Barnes cleared his throat and began his questioning. After stating his name, address, and occupation, Matt recounted in depth his encounter with Byron Krug that afternoon at The Long Branch. His testimony matched exactly his first description of the event, and he did not waiver on any of the details. Barnes asked several questions of clarification, not because he needed it but to emphasize to the jury certain facts of the case. Matt Dillon—respected lawman with impeccable credentials and reputation—did not know Byron Krug or the victim, had not varied from his original account of the shooting in the months since it had happened, provided a motive for the defendant's actions through Linda Harrison's eyewitness statements, and had absolutely nothing to gain by telling a version of this story that was untrue. Byron quietly seethed throughout the testimony.

Satisfied with how his questioning had gone, Barnes turned the witness over for cross-examination. Gregory Hardy popped up from his chair, eager to begin. He wore a fake, toothy grin and spoke in voice that was irritatingly polite.

"Good morning, Marshal," he started pleasantly. Matt looked him in the eye but did not respond in kind. Hardy didn't miss a beat.

"Mister Dillon, how many men have you killed?" he asked bluntly, in a light tone that didn't at all match the nature of the question. Matt was taken aback but hid it well.

"I don't know," he answered after a few seconds.

"A rough estimate—five, twenty, a hundred?" Hardy was still smiling.

"I don't know," he managed to repeat calmly. "More than a few. It's part of my job."

"Yes, of course," the attorney patronized. "Have you ever made a mistake while doing your job?" he asked.

"I'm not sure what you mean," Matt said honestly.

"Well, you carry a gun, you shoot people. Many people, as you just told us. Have you ever shot someone by mistake? Perhaps hit the wrong person?"

Hardy had done his homework, and Matt knew exactly what he was referring to. In an incident that still haunted him, a customer had been severely injured when caught in the cross fire during a bank robbery, and it had been Matt's bullet that hit him. After an investigation, Matt had quickly been cleared of any wrongdoing.

"Yes, unfortunately that has happened," he replied.

"So, you do make mistakes?" Hardy marveled as though this was a shocking revelation.

"Of course," Matt responded dismissively. It was a ridiculous question and a waste of time.

"Well, after hearing Mr. Barnes talk about your credentials and reputation, I wasn't sure," he joked, though no one laughed. What Hardy saw as Matt Dillon's canonization by the state had been a pain his backside ever since he took this case. He quickly cleared his throat and moved on.

"You claim that you were alerted to a disturbance at The Long Branch. Did you know the nature of that disturbance?" A good defense lawyer never conceded that the witness's account was correct, only that he acknowledged that account.

"No," Matt stated flatly.

"No? Mr….um, Brimley did not tell you the disturbance involved a woman?" he asked skeptically, rifling through a stack of papers as if he had to refresh his memory on the name. The jury was unaware that the name was quite familiar to him, as he had worked hard to get Hud Brimley kicked off of the witness list.

Matt remained stone faced. "He said there was trouble at The Long Branch. That was all."

"I see," Hardy said condescendingly. "And did you have any concerns of a personal nature when you heard about this 'trouble' at The Long Branch?"

Matt bristled. Where was he going with this? "I am personally responsible for the safety of the town, if that's what you mean."

The attorney appeared to snicker, though it was subtle. Matt was starting to lose his patience with this vague, bizarre line of questioning.

"Marshal Dillon, is it true that you have been in a romantic relationship with the owner of this particular saloon for quite some time?" Unlike before, Matt's face reflected the shock he felt, and Hardy couldn't have been more delighted at his transparency. "Objection!" shouted Barnes as he shot up from the prosecutor's table. "That is totally irrelevant!" All he knew about the marshal's personal life was how fiercely he protected it, and Barnes wasn't about to see it destroyed for sport if he could help it.

"This goes to state of mind, Your Honor," Hardy bellowed. "It is an important part of our defense." Rattling a witness enough to damage his credibility was always an important part of his defenses.

Judge Moorehead thoughtfully considered the matter. "Overruled, for now," he stated cautiously. "Mr. Hardy, I am warning you, this had better be relevant to the case."

Hardy smiled. "I promise you, it is." This was the moment he had been waiting for, and he had spent months preparing for it. The jury was going to hear his alternate version of the incident and, more importantly, Matt's reaction to it. Even if the judge ended up striking it from the record, no amount of instructions to disregard could make them un-hear it, and he only needed one person with reasonable doubt. His strategy was simple—show that it was _possible_ that a fallible hothead with an itchy trigger finger had misread a situation and made a mistake. He needn't prove anything, that burden was on the state. With only a single witness and a client who had never been in trouble with the law, it was his best chance at acquittal.

Hardy repeated his very personal, irrelevant question. Matt was under oath and had no choice but to answer truthfully. He glared at the attorney with utter contempt as he spoke. "Yes."

Hardy nodded satisfactorily. "Is it fair to say that owning a saloon can be a pretty rough job for a woman?"

Matt continued to glare at him. "It can be a pretty rough job for anyone."

"Have there been occasions when Miss Russell—that is her name, correct?—has been pursued or harassed by overzealous men, or perhaps was present during a fight or shooting where she could have been injured? Has that ever happened?"

Matt was almost sarcastic in his reply. "Of course. It's a saloon."

"Then it is possible your judgement was compromised when you entered The Long Branch, is it not? That you were you worried about your woman, or perhaps even jealous?"

"Absolutely not," Matt practically shouted.

Hardy ignored him and continued his creative rewriting of events. "And in that agitated state, you encountered Mr. Krug, who was wearing a gun, and you prematurely drew on him—"

"I drew on him because he was getting ready to shoot an unarmed man," Matt interrupted angrily.

Hardy was unfazed. "And while attempting to defend himself, Mr. Krug got off a shot which accidentally hit Mr. Frazier, much like you accidentally shot an unarmed citizen in the bank. Isn't that closer to what really happened?"

Barnes vigorously repeated his objection. "Your Honor, he's not asking a question, he's giving a soliloquy!" This time Judge Moorehead sustained the objection, and loudly.

Matt Dillon had not lost his cool on the witness stand a single time in all the years he had been a lawman, but this outright slander and invasion of privacy was more than even the most patient man could bear. He leaned forward and pointed menacingly at Hardy, his voice rising in barely controlled anger.

"You can make up whatever lies you want to about me, but it won't change the fact that your client is a cold-blooded killer," he seethed.

Tenuously in control of his emotions under the best of circumstances, Gordon Krug had heard enough. This was his brother, his idol, and the bad man was going to get him into trouble and send him away, just like Byron had said he would. Gordon thought he had made sure that wasn't going to happen, but something obviously went wrong.

"Stop saying those things!" Gordon cried, leaping to his feet. "You're not even supposed to be here!"

"Be quiet!" Byron hissed in a hushed tone, his face crimson and veins popping in his forehead.

"But it wasn't my fault," he whined in his version of a whisper, a voice much softer than his normal volume but still audible to the entire courtroom. "I did just like you said, I paid the man real good when he got back from Dodge. It wasn't my fault, I swear. He said he was sure the marshal drank it, and it wouldn't be long before he was—"

"Shut up, you idiot!" Krug screamed at Gordon, who reacted like a scolded puppy.

For the first time since the proceedings had gotten out of hand, the courtroom fell silent. Judge Moorehead, Fred Barnes, Matt Dillon, even Gregory Hardy paused to process what they had just heard. The implication was clear but the details weren't. What was the man sure Matt had drunk? Had someone tried to poison him? Matt's mind began racing with questions.

"I don't know what he's talking about!" Byron claimed unconvincingly. "Look at him, he doesn't know what he's saying!"

Gordon obviously didn't plan this on his own, and he didn't seem like a man capable of making up a story on the spot. If Matt wanted to know the truth, this was the time to find out—before Hardy got a hold of him.

He abruptly left the witness box without being excused—the trial was officially a circus now anyway—and confronted Gordon. "Start talking," he ordered in a threatening tone, bending over so his nose was not more than an inch from Gordon's. "What did you pay the man to do?"

Gordon swallowed hard as he saw the fire in the man's eyes. He had never been face to face with anyone that big, and he was thoroughly intimidated. When he didn't make an immediate statement, Matt grabbed the lapels of his jacket and pulled him almost off of his feet. "Answer me!" he insisted through clenched teeth.

"To…to keep you from coming here," he croaked, his throat partially closed from the pressure of his position.

"Shut up!" Byron kept yelling in vain.

"How was he supposed to keep me from coming here? What did he do?" Matt pressed him.

"B…back in Dodge. He…he…he put something in the coffee pot in…in your office."

"Put _what_ in the coffee pot? What was it?"

Byron was being physically restrained from angrily charging the two men by his own attorney, who was considerably larger and had no trouble doing so. It appeared that even Gregory Hardy was above killing a witness to get an acquittal, and he was just as curious as everyone else about Gordon's story.

"It's…it's…it's a big name," Gordon stammered, still barely on his feet. "Olan…Olea…Olander. I don't remember! It makes people real sick so they can't tell lies..."

"Oleander?" Matt guessed, saying the first word that came to mind that seemed close to Gordon's butchered attempt. Gordon nodded his head. That sounded right.

Matt had a vague familiarity with the name, but from where? He searched his memory and it quickly came to him—Doc. The man was a walking encyclopedia and liked to talk about interesting facts from his journal studies, even if his friends didn't always understand them. He had once mentioned an article on oleander, Matt was quite sure of it. A plant of some kind, exotic...poisonous? He couldn't remember the details, but it was enough to convince him that Gordon was telling the truth. They had tried to poison him and had obviously failed—what went wrong?

"When did this happen?" Matt demanded. "Where?"

"Yesterday morning. Real early, when…when you left your office."

 _Yesterday morning_. Matt frantically began to replay the previous day's events in his mind. What had became of that pot of coffee? Chester had made it first thing and then left to spend the day with Martha Beckham. He was gone before Matt left the office, so he wouldn't have been exposed. He and Kitty ate an early breakfast at Delmonico's before he had to catch the stage, and they briefly came back to the office to say goodbye in private. He decided not to have any more coffee before the trip because he knew from experience that too much coffee and a long stage trip did not mix well. Then Kitty made a joke about it being so early she'd even drink Chester's coffee, poured herself a cup and…

Matt shoved Gordon Krug back into his seat so hard the man almost fell over the back rest. He informed Barnstead and Judge Moorehead that he had an urgent wire to send and rushed out of the courthouse without further explanation.

TBC


	6. Chapter 6

The Witness

Chapter 6

"A Telegram"

Doc had almost forgotten about breakfast. He was decidedly less hungry than he had been when he came to get Chester, but he forced down a quick bowl of oatmeal and enough coffee to get him through the morning. He needed to get back to his research but knew he wouldn't be able to concentrate until he checked on Kitty.

He headed back to The Long Branch at a brisk pace, spying Sam Noonan approaching the front entrance just ahead of him. "You're here mighty early," Doc called out. "I suppose you came to see about Kitty."

"Yes Sir," Sam confirmed. "She was awful sick last night, and I wanted to see if there was anything I could do."

"Well, let me take a look—" Doc started before he was interrupted. Billy Hauser, part-time errand boy for the Telegraph office, was yelling his name and running toward them.

"Doc, I got an urgent wire for you," he huffed, holding out the envelope as soon as he was within reach. "It's from Marshal Dillon in Hays." Doc quickly grabbed it and pulled out a piece of paper containing three words— _How is she?_ " Doc looked up at Billy with a quizzical expression. "Is this it?"

"Yes, Sir," Billy replied. "Mr. Clark said it came over as urgent, which means they pay extra to have it delivered as soon as possible. I found you as fast as I could."

Doc fished in his pocket and handed him a nickel. "Very well. Thank you Billy," he offered. The young man smiled as he accepted his tip and headed back to work.

"What is it, Doc?" Sam asked, seeing the puzzled look on his face.

Doc wasn't sure what was going on, but he had a feeling this was important. Matt had a policy of never mentioning Kitty in a wire—it wasn't worth the risk of strange eyes and ears making a connection he wanted to keep unconnected. So why the cryptic message now, and how could he possibly have known to ask about her? Whatever the answer, time was wasting.

"I can't say just yet, Sam. But I have to get over to the Telegraph office, so I need you to check on Kitty for me."

"What should I do?" Sam wondered. He was eager to help, but she seemed so fragile and he certainly didn't want to make anything worse.

"See if she can drink some water, that would help more than anything right now. If not, just attend to whatever she needs. Make sure she hasn't developed a fever. If she has, come and get me."

Sam nodded as Doc hurried away. He then took a breath and headed up to Miss Kitty's room to practice his whirlwind lesson in medical care.

GSGSGSGSGSGSGSGSGSGS

Matt nervously tapped his feet on the floor as he sat in the Hays Telegraph Office waiting for a reply. He tried to calm himself with the notion that Doc knew where he was and would surely have let him know if the unthinkable had happened. He racked his brain trying to remember exactly how much of that coffee Kitty had consumed. She had mentioned that it tasted funny, but it was Chester's coffee after all and he thought nothing of it. He had been busy getting his belongings together for the trip and was too distracted to notice such details. Maybe she had only taken a couple of sips.

"Mister Dillon, a wire just arrived for you," came a pleasant voice from behind the desk. Matt jumped up to retrieve it and read the contents. " _Very sick. How did you know?_ "

Damn it. Why didn't he include the information about the poison in his first wire instead of this back and forth? He hadn't been thinking clearly, he just needed to know that she was alive. He pulled another coin from his shirt pocket and handed it to the clerk. "Send this reply: _'Oleander poisoning. Will explain later.'_ " Unsure himself, Matt told the man to take his best guess at spelling that first word.

The clerk raised his eyebrows, then quickly masked his surprise. He was trained not to react to the contents of a wire, but he had never been asked to send anything like this. He dutifully took the coin and tapped out the words.

Doc was waiting, just as anxiously, on the other end of the transmission. He read it three times to make sure he had read it correctly. _Oleander poisoning? How?_ His training on poisonous plants centered mostly on those native to the area, and aside from raw elderberries—which everyone knew not to eat—concerns were typically about livestock and not people. He was familiar with the toxicity of oleander from the literature and even remembered a while back mentioning an article about it to Matt and Chester over lunch. But it was merely a curiosity, not something he would ever have to worry about in Dodge. Oleander wasn't even native to North America, though it had apparently made its way to some southern states in the 40's. It only grew in warmer climates and would never survive a harsh winter in Kansas. In order for anyone here to ingest it, someone would have to import it and purposely administer it.

However this had happened, Doc was certain that Matt would not have sent such specific information without good reason. He would just have to trust that. He sent a final wire that he hoped would put his friend at ease, at least as much as possible under the circumstances. _"Understood. Will treat accordingly."_

He had limited experience treating human poisoning, and obviously none with oleander. He had a hunch what to do, but he wanted to make sure before proceeding. Mistakes in his profession could be fatal, and with Kitty's and Chester's lives both at stake, that fact had never seemed more burdensome.

Doc took the wooden steps leading to his office faster than he would have thought possible a day ago. His copy of the _Manual of Toxicology_ was somewhere in his small library of books, but he wasn't sure where. This type of poisoning had not been anywhere on his list of likely scenarios when he had started his research. Luckily, he was able to locate it within a minute of searching his collection.

A scan of a chapter on poisonous plants confirmed that his instinct had been correct. Charcoal had been used for centuries to treat ailments ranging from ulcers to gangrenous sores, and within the past few years scientists had developed an activation process which increased its adsorptive power. Taken orally, it had been discovered that toxins in the body would bind to the charcoal and be expelled without doing further damage to the organs. It was less commonly used as a remedy for colic and dyspepsia, and though not part of his typical treatment plan he did have a small supply on hand.

Doc opened the cabinet and shoved his one bottle of activated charcoal into his medical bag. He would tend to Kitty first since she seemed to have been exposed earlier than Chester, judging from when her symptoms began. He could only hope that the toxins would be expelled before her heart gave out. Hope, and maybe pray.

TBC


	7. Chapter 7

The Witness

Chapter 7

"Homeward Bound"

There was no railroad connecting Hays to Dodge, so one could not take a train without going a ridiculous distance out of the way. The fastest route to Dodge involved taking a stage to Rush Center, picking up the Santa Fe line to Great Bend, and changing trains to go the final 80 miles. It was a longer distance but almost half the travel time versus taking a stage the whole way. It was also much more expensive, which was why stage travel was still so popular. Matt Dillon was a man of modest means, but money was the last thing on his mind at the moment. All he could think about was getting home to Kitty.

After an inquiry at the Telegraph office, he learned that the stage to Rush Center left in twenty minutes. He checked out of his hotel without even returning to his room, informing the clerk that this was an emergency and he would send for his suitcase later. The clerk had been mercifully understanding and agreed to deliver a hastily written message from him to Judge Moorehead. He arrived at the stage depot, still in his court clothes, just in time to purchase his ticket. Thankfully, he always took spare cash just in case and guessed that he should have enough to make it home. If he was short once he got to Great Bend, he would figure it out even if he had to stow away.

Matt wondered what had happened after he left the courthouse. Judge Moorehead would have had no choice but to declare a mistrial under the circumstances, and Gordon Krug was likely taken into custody after his revelation. Poor Gordon—Matt couldn't help but feel sorry for him and hope that he would get a fair shake considering his mental capacity. Since Judge Moorehead was new to Hays, Matt didn't have a good sense of him yet. He could only hope that he could explain his own behavior in court to the judge's satisfaction. He would think about that later.

Two passengers boarded ahead of him, a middle-aged couple who appeared to be husband and wife. They had friendly faces and the wife seemed particularly chatty. She smiled as he entered and began talking the instant he sat down. She had a nasally voice and her words ran together quickly as though she was the type who feared a lull in conversation. In other words, Matt's worst nightmare.

"Hello there, my name is Margaret and this is my husband Herbert. We're on our way to catch the train to Topeka to visit our son and his family. Where are you headed this fine day, if I may ask?"

"Dodge City," he answered politely, with an expression that indicated he wasn't feeling as chatty. Margaret didn't seem to notice and continued unfazed. "Oh, my. I've never been to Dodge City but I've heard it's quite the rough little town. My Robert-that's our son-spent some time there a few years ago and said there's more saloons than churches. Is that true? Why are you going there?"

Matt managed to hide his slight irritation. "I live there," he informed her, ignoring her other question. He wasn't in the mood to discuss his views on morality.

"Really? What do you do there?" Good God, was she going to talk the entire thirty miles?

He thought about making up an answer, but he wasn't a good liar. "I'm the marshal there. My name is Matt Dillon."

"Matt Dillon!" she squealed. "Did you hear that Herbert? We're riding a stage with Marshal Matt Dillon! You're practically famous in these parts. Why, I heard that one time you—"

"Ma'am, I'm terribly sorry," he interjected in a weary voice. "I have a lot on my mind right now and don't feel much like talking. I hope you understand."

Margaret took a breath and started to reply, but her husband nudged her with his elbow. She closed her mouth and meekly smiled as Herbert took a rare opportunity to show that he was not mute. "Certainly, Marshal, we understand. We'll just say thank you for your service to the community. Without people like you, there would be no justice in this land."

Matt was generally not good at receiving compliments, but this one was particularly well-timed. "I appreciate that, Herbert," he said sincerely, shaking the man's hand.

In the following silence, Matt couldn't help but think about what Herbert had just said. Justice—such a paradox in his world. Because he sought justice for Byron Krug, an innocent woman—the woman he loved—was fighting for her life. There was no justice in that. Matt reached into his pocket and grasped a tiny black box in his large hand, absentmindedly twirling it with his fingers. It held the brooch he had bought this morning, carved shell inside a yellow gold frame. As soon as he saw it, he imagined helping her pin it on that new dress before escorting her to Grace Tatum's wedding. He could see the look on her face when he presented it to her, perhaps her beautiful hair cascading down one side the way she liked to wear it on such occasions. What he wouldn't give to go back to that time, when the thought of going home was comforting and his only worry was how well he would do on the witness stand. The importance of the trial paled in comparison to the current situation, and his concern over Gregory Hardy now seemed trivial. What would he find when he got to Dodge? Would he ever be able to forgive himself if she didn't make it? The questions haunted him as the stage pulled away from Hays City and carried him toward the unknown.

GSGSGSGSGSGSGSGSGS

Kitty had wondered if it was possible to feel any worse than she did last night, and the cruel answer had come this morning in the form of a pounding headache. None of her other symptoms had subsided and if possible she was even weaker than before, so it was official— _this_ was the sickest she had ever been. Her body had stopped heaving, but that only meant that she didn't even get the very temporary relief from the nausea. Still in her dress from last night, she was cold despite the blanket Doc had put over her. She felt a large, warm hand touch her forehead and wondered if it was real. All night she had slipped in and out of consciousness, never quite sure if her visions of him were hallucinations. But this was the first time she had felt him, and her eyes fluttered open.

"Miss Kitty?" came the familiar voice, though not the one she was expecting. Still, she found Sam's warm smile comforting. "How are you feeling this morning?" he asked.

She tried to chuckle but it made her head start to hurt even more. "Fantastic," she croaked sarcastically. At least she hadn't lost her sass.

"You don't seem to have a fever," he announced optimistically. "Doc said to come get him if you did, so I think this is a good sign."

Kitty swallowed nothing, never more aware of the dryness of her mouth. "If you say so," she replied, unconvinced that anything about her current condition could be considered good.

"Doc said to try and drink some water. I'll get you a glass," Sam offered. Kitty shook her head. "No Sam. I don't think I can sit up and I'm cold. Can you please get me another blanket?" Her words were slow and barely audible.

"Certainly," he replied, retrieving the quilt Doc had slept on from the floor and gently laying it on top of her. Kitty grabbed at the quilt and began pulling it up to her neck, and Sam reached down to help. His hand brushed hers and he was alarmed at what he felt.

"Miss Kitty, your hands are ice cold," he observed, unsure of what it meant or what to do about it. He just knew it was unseasonably warm outside and this couldn't be normal.

"I know," she whispered, closing her eyes again. Sam took her petite left hand and pressed it between both of his. She felt an instant burst of glorious warmth, and the hint of a smile crossed her lips. At least one part of her body was satisfied. "That feels good," she said.

"Won't you just try to drink some water?" he asked again. Doc had said that would help more than anything, and he was eager to do the right thing. Kitty Russell had given him a job when no one else would, and it was his turn to do something for her.

"In a bit," she promised, inching her right hand toward the warmth. If she could alleviate the chill, maybe she would feel more like sitting up.

Sam dutifully sat at her bedside, warming her hands and willing Doc's hasty return with his mind. He knew Doc wouldn't have left if it hadn't been necessary, but this was nerve-racking. He had never seen anyone this weak who had survived.

He felt an immediate release of tension when he finally heard footsteps in the hallway. The door burst open and Doc, winded from the sprint from his office and yet another set of stairs, hurried to his patient's side. "Help me get her up, Sam," Doc ordered with a sense of urgency, setting his bag on the floor. He grabbed her shoulder and Sam quickly made his way to the opposite side of the bed, taking the other one. Together they pulled her up to a sitting position, the headboard stopping her from flopping backwards. Kitty frowned at this confusing, unwelcome interruption and squinted at the men. "No," she began to protest.

"Yes," Doc countered. "Kitty, I know what's wrong with you. I'm going to fix you something to drink—it might taste a little gritty, but try not to think about it. You have to take it all, and you have to keep it down." He opened his bag and pulled out the bottle along with a measuring spoon.

"I can't—" she continued to protest, but he cut her off. "You can, and you will," he announced firmly. He poured a glass of water that he had brought with him and stirred in the dark, fine powder. It made the water look dirty, but it had no flavor. Sam held her up as he lifted the glass to her dry, cracked lips. "Little sips," he instructed, tilting the liquid toward her mouth. She winced as the first splash hit her tongue and instinctively spit the offensive contents back into the glass.

"Try again," he urged. Doc gently pat her on the cheek and made her look at him. "Kitty, I would not make you do this if it wasn't extremely important. This could save your life—do you understand me?"

As her eyes began to focus, she nodded her head. He held the glass up to her lips, again delivering a small dose to her mouth. This time she immediately swallowed, pushing the unpleasant grainy texture out of her mind.

"Good girl," Doc praised. "We have to keep going until this is all gone, okay? If I go too fast you tell me. You can do this, Kitty." She took in a deep breath and slowly exhaled. It calmed her stomach enough to feel that she could tolerate the next sip. She nodded her readiness and Doc continued administering his medicine.

It took longer than he had hoped, but Kitty managed to finish the glass. Doc returned the bottle to his bag and stood up. "Sam, stay here with her. Make her breathe, talk to her, keep her preoccupied. Whatever it takes to keep it down. If you need me, I'll be at the jail."

With that, he rushed out and prepared to start the process all over again with Chester.

TBC


	8. Chapter 8

The Witness

Chapter 8

"Two Patients"

Matt was standing near the door, prepared to exit, as the train rolled to a stop at the Dodge station. With no luggage weighing him down, he was able to hoof it into town fairly quickly. The sun was just beginning to set and he could still see faces, but after a quick scan of Front Street no familiar ones. Where was she, Doc's office or her own room? He wouldn't allow himself to consider any alternatives. His gut told him to go to The Long Branch, where he found the inside doors shut and a sign announcing that they were closed for business today. He felt a knot in the pit of his stomach as he tried the doors and discovered that they were not locked. He let himself inside and saw the chairs neatly stacked on each table, eerily quiet for early evening. Taking the steps two at a time, he burst into her bedroom, heart pounding. She was sitting up, clearly sick but very much alive. Sitting on the edge of the bed, Sam held a bowl of clear broth in one hand and a spoon in the other.

Kitty could hardly believe her eyes. Why wasn't he in Hays? She was still very weak, but the fog was beginning to lift and she was fairly certain it had only been a day since he had left. Doc, still completely in the dark about the source of the poisoning, had decided to wait for all the facts before telling her anything. He had spent the last several hours going back and forth between the jail and The Long Branch, dosing the charcoal at regular intervals and encouraging his patents to relieve themselves. So far, it seemed to be working.

"Marshal Dillon, you're sure a welcome sight," Sam proclaimed. Kitty's eyes filled with tears, both of happiness to see him and embarrassment at how she must look. Matt rushed to the other side of the bed, uncharacteristically ignoring the spectator and tenderly taking her hand. Hell, Sam already knew they were more than friends whether he wanted to admit it or not. This was not the time for false pretenses.

"Kitty, Honey, are you alright?" he asked. "I was so worried." Her hair was a tattered mess and there were small spots of blood on her cracked lips. She squeezed his hand as hard as she could, which was not hard at all but it comforted him more than he could describe. She was awake, she understood him, and she could squeeze his hand.

"Matt, how did you know?" she wondered. "Did Doc wire you in Hays? He shouldn't have done that."

"No, I wired him," Matt explained. "Kitty, I found out this morning that Byron Krug tried to kill me so I couldn't testify—he poisoned the coffee in my office yesterday morning. Or rather, he got his brother to hire someone to do it. I didn't drink it, remember? But you did, and as soon as I realized what had happened I had to get home to you. "

"Poison?" she repeated, bewildered. It wasn't a possibility she had considered, not for a second. That wasn't something that happened in real life, it was something you read in a Shakespeare play. The coffee had tasted bad, but—well, Chester made it. She was suddenly very thankful that Matt had been mindful of his bladder yesterday morning. What if he had drunk the coffee before setting out for Hays? He would have been far from home by the time he got sick, no Doc to take care of him, possibly no way of ever knowing what had happened to him. It was a chilling thought.

"Gordon admitted it in the court, Kitty. I was on the stand and he just stood up and started yelling about how I wasn't supposed to be there. I got it out of him pretty quickly. Once I realized you were in danger I ran out of the courthouse and didn't even tell the judge where I was going. It made me crazy, not knowing if you were okay. You don't know what I've been through today."

As soon as he said it, he realized how it sounded. "You poor thing," she deadpanned. They both began to chuckle, and Kitty put her free hand on her forehead.

"Ow," she said pitifully, closing her eyes. Her headache had gotten much better since she had been able to keep liquids down, but it wasn't gone by any means.

Matt rubbed her hand. "Oh Honey, I'm sorry. Where is Doc? I thought he'd be with you."

"He's with Chester," Sam piped up, listening intently to Matt's story. "He's been back and forth all day."

"With Chester?" Matt echoed. "Why?"

"Chester's sick too," Sam said. "About as sick as Miss Kitty."

The thought hadn't even crossed his mind. Chester hadn't been around yesterday morning but was surely back by last night, and he had a habit of warming up a stale pot of coffee in the evening and drinking it no matter how disgusting it was. What if he had ingested a lot more of than Kitty had?

"How is he?" Matt asked.

"I'm not sure," Sam answered honestly. "Doc's been so busy, he hasn't told me much of anything. I just know he's been giving Chester the same medicine he gave Miss Kitty. It's helped her a lot, so I reckon it's helping him too. She was in a real bad way earlier, Marshal."

Kitty couldn't argue with that. She just hoped that Chester was responding to the magic dirty water the way she had.

"Go check on him, Matt," she urged. "I'll be fine here with Sam."

Matt nodded and squeezed her hand one last time before kissing her on the forehead. "I'll be back soon," he whispered. He stopped to express his gratitude toward her makeshift nurse on the way out. "Thanks Sam. You've been a good friend."

He found Doc at the jail, sitting on the cot next to Chester and holding a grayish looking liquid up to his lips. Doc turned toward the creaky door when he heard it open.

"Well, you sure got here in a hurry. Kitty's doing better," he announced first thing, knowing what Matt needed to hear.

"I know, I just came from there. Doc, how is Chester?" he asked in a hushed tone, in case Doc didn't want Chester to hear the answer. "You didn't tell me he was sick too."

Doug tugged at his ear. "Well you know, it's hard to say much in a ten-word wire, and I was in a pretty big hurry myself. As soon as you told me what was wrong, I knew I didn't have time to dilly dally. All I can tell you is that Kitty and Chester owe their lives to you. If you hadn't sent that wire, I may not have figured it out in time to help them."

Matt sighed. He wasn't feeling much like a lifesaver, considering that the poison was meant for him.

Chester finished a gulp and looked up at his boss, having overheard the conversation. "Mister Dillon, how did you know what was wrong with us?" Doc eyed him expectantly, anxious to hear that answer himself. Matt retold the events of the morning, starting with his interrogation by Hardy and continuing to Gordon's dramatic outburst and admission. Doc and Chester listened with the same sense of bewilderment as Kitty and Sam.

There was brief silence as they absorbed the details of this bizarre story. Finally, Doc broke the ice. "Well, I always said Chester's coffee was going to kill somebody."

"Aw now, Doc, that ain't funny a'tall," Chester complained. Doc winked at Matt and then gave Chester a pat on the shoulder. "I'm sorry Chester, we've all been through a lot and I was just trying to lighten the mood."

Matt still had some nagging questions on his mind. "Doc, what exactly is oleander? I remember you talking about it one time, but I didn't even know how to tell the clerk to spell it in the wire."

"Well, in its raw form it's one of the most toxic plants in the world," he explained. "Every part is toxic—the leaves, flowers, stems. One leaf can kill a person, if ingested the right way. It only grows in warm climates, you won't find it anywhere around here."

"Then how would Krug have gotten it?" Matt wondered.

"Oh, I suppose you can get just about anything with enough money," Doc surmised. "He could have sent someone to Texas, had it shipped here—it probably wasn't too hard. My guess is that whoever he hired was told to stir a leaf or flower into the coffee, and he didn't let it steep long enough to get the full effect of the toxins. Not many people would know those kinds of details. Right now, I'm pretty thankful for that."

"Me too, Doc," Matt added. He was also thankful that the smartest man he knew had decided to pursue a career as a country doctor in Dodge City.

"Chester, I'm sure glad you're feeling better," Matt said to his assistant. "You get some rest and I'll see you tomorrow. I'd better get back to Kitty."

"You do that," Doc said approvingly. "I'll be back over to check on her before bed."

"See you then," Matt replied. He would be there, no matter what time.

TBC


	9. Chapter 9

The Witness

Chapter 9

"Blame"

As he usually did, Matt awoke well before Kitty. Often he would slip out of bed to get back to the jail by dawn, but not this morning. He wanted to savor the moment, her head resting on his shoulder and arm wrapped around his waist, sleeping peacefully. Instead of a cumbersome dress, she was wearing a comfortable nightgown that he had helped her into after Doc left. Doc had checked on her as promised and had given her one last dose of medicine, mostly as a precautionary measure. She had continued to improve throughout the evening, her heartbeat stronger and the dizziness and nausea subsiding, but he knew it wouldn't hurt to make sure the toxins were completely adsorbed. After examining her, looking as though he might have barely survived a serious illness himself, he went home for a much needed and well-deserved rest.

Despite Doc's assurances, Matt couldn't help but remain cautious in his optimism. He had woken up intermittently throughout the night, each time putting a hand on her face or stomach to check that she was warm and breathing. In his dreams she had been sick, crying, calling his name, wondering why he was letting her die. Her recovery from this traumatic incident might well take less time than his.

Lying in bed, beside his lover yet alone with his thoughts, he couldn't get Byron Krug and that damn trial out of his head. Had the helpful clerk actually given his note to Judge Moorehead? In it, he had apologized for leaving court so hastily and explained that he believed an innocent person's life was at stake due to Gordon Krug's statement. He didn't say who that person was—it shouldn't matter—and he hoped the judge would not hold it against him. Byron Krug would almost certainly be retried for murder, and his hapless brother-obviously just a puppet with his brother pulling the strings-was probably sitting in the cell next to him. He wondered if Hardy would take his case, or continue with Byron's for that matter.

The whole mess had left a bitter, putrid taste in his mouth. He had done everything by the book, and the results had been disastrous in ways he had never considered. Perhaps in all the unfairness that was the Byron Krug case, that was what bothered him the most—after spending four years worrying over every disturbing, sinister way that his job might put her in danger, someone had actually harmed her in a manner he had never considered. It made him wonder what else he might unwittingly overlook.

The rumble in his stomach made Matt realize that he had not eaten since his hotel breakfast yesterday. He figured he could get a bite at Delmonico's and be back before she woke up. Maybe he would bring back some toast and juice, Doc had said she could try light solids today if she was up to it. He gently unhooked her arm from around his waist and placed it on her stomach, then slowly slid off the side of the bed. She grabbed onto his pillow and pulled it to her, eyes still closed and seemingly unaware.

Matt quietly slipped into tan pants and a red shirt, the change of clothes he had brought back to her room last night. He crept to the door on his toes after the first step of his large boot echoed on the hardwood floor. He finally exited the room, satisfied that he had not disturbed her.

When he got to Delmonico's he was surprised to see Doc, sitting alone and drinking a cup of coffee. Considering the way he had looked last night, Matt figured he might sleep all day.

"You're up early," Matt observed, pulling out a chair and joining his friend.

"Well sir, I slept about seven hours straight and that's a lot for me. How is my patient this morning?"

"Still sleeping," he answered. "She had a restful night."

"That's good to hear. I just came from checking on Chester."

"He's going to be alright, isn't he Doc?" Matt asked, feeling slightly guilty that he had paid so much more attention to Kitty when Chester had suffered just the same.

"I believe so," Doc replied. "I told him the same thing I told Kitty, it's going to take some time to get your strength back, so take it easy and don't overdo it. Of course, I don't expect that to be nearly the problem for Chester that it will be for Kitty."

Matt chuckled. "I think you're a little tough on poor Chester."

"Oh, he knows I just like to give him a hard time. But I'm serious about Kitty, Matt. I'm counting on you to keep an eye on her and make sure she doesn't do too much too soon. Her body has been through a lot, and if she doesn't take care of herself she's not going to get better."

Matt's expression became somber. "Of course I'll look after her, Doc. After all, it's because of me that she got sick in the first place."

Doc set his cup down and sighed. "Well, I was waiting for that."

"For what?" he asked, though he had an idea.

"For you to blame yourself. Matt, this isn't your fault any more than it's mine. The only people responsible for this are the ones who carried out that ridiculous plan. There wasn't a thing in the world you could have done differently, and you know it."

Matt reluctantly nodded his agreement. "It's still hard, Doc. I keep thinking how much safer she would be if she wasn't with me."

"Then I suppose you should stop seeing her," Doc suggested sarcastically. "And fire Chester, and ban me from your office while you're at it. Do you know how many times I've stopped by and had a cup of coffee in the morning? That could have just as easily been me. What are you going to do Matt, live like a hermit on the off chance that something bad might happen to people?"

"Something bad _did_ happen," he shot back. "This time it was intended for me. What if next time it's intended for her, and I can't stop it? I don't think I could live with myself."

Doc absentmindedly rubbed his cheek. "Well, I don't know what to tell you about that, but there's something I can tell you. Kitty is a grown woman, and a smart one at that. She's known the risks from the beginning and decided they were worth taking. It's her decision, and you have to respect that. Life is a risk, Matt. Look at my job—one bad diagnosis and I can kill somebody. Does that mean I should give up doctoring? I guess we could all just do as little as possible and not care about anybody, and maybe we won't make as many mistakes or get hurt. But that doesn't sound like much of a life to me."

There was a moment of silence as Matt chewed on his words. He hated it when Doc was right.

"And think about this," Doc added, almost as an afterthought. "I knew you before she came along, and by golly I like you a heck of a lot better now. Be advised that if you screw this up with her, I might not be able to stand you anymore." His tone was gruff and he scowled for effect.

Matt couldn't help but crack a smile. "Understood."

Satisfied that he had gotten through to him, Doc hailed the waiter. "Now let's get some breakfast."

TBC


	10. Chapter 10

The Witness

Chapter 10

"Escape"

"Mister Dillon! Mister Dillon!" Matt was leisurely walking down Front Street when he heard his name in that familiar twang. He turned to see Chester briskly hobbling toward him, the fastest he had moved in the week since his illness.

"Slow down there, Chester," Matt advised. "You're supposed to be taking it easy."

"This was just delivered to the office and I knew you'd wanna see it right away," he replied breathlessly, unconcerned with his health at the moment. He thrust an envelope in Matt's direction. "It's from Judge Moorehead."

Matt stared at the envelope before opening it. He had not heard from the judge or Fred Barnes since he had left the courtroom, and it had made him a little nervous. He wasn't even sure what he was hoping to hear—part of him wouldn't mind if he never had to deal with this case again, but he also wanted to see justice for Byron Krug.

"Well, aren't you gonna read it?" Chester pressed.

Matt nodded and pulled out the telegram. He scanned the words, then frowned as he read them again more slowly.

"What does it say?" Chester asked.

Matt sighed in a way that indicated disgust. "Byron Krug escaped from jail last night," he said.

"Escaped? Well that's just terrible," Chester fretted. "How did it happen?"

Matt shook his head. "Doesn't say. They're putting together a posse to go after him." He wasn't surprised that Krug had attempted it, probably his last chance at freedom after he had failed to dispose of the last witness who could convict him. He was more surprised that he had actually succeeded, no small feat for a hardened criminal much less a pipsqueak like Byron.

"Are you goin' after him?" Chester wondered.

Matt wondered that himself. Under different circumstances he might already be back at his office, packing a bag and instructing Chester to get his horse. But these were not normal circumstances, and he needed some time to digest this unwelcome information. "I don't know," he said answered honestly. "Thanks for getting this to me so quickly, Chester." He walked away without further comment, heading toward the jail with no particular plan.

The stack of unopened mail on his desk was a well-timed diversion. He opened his paycheck, read through a notice of appeal on an old case, and began looking through the new batch of Wanted posters, staring at menacing faces that did nothing to take his mind off of Byron Krug. He pulled out a desk drawer to file them away and came across a cream colored envelope with his name written in fancy script—his invitation to Grace Tatem's wedding, which was tomorrow evening. The night he had come home to Kitty, stroking her hair as she fell asleep, he had promised her two things—that she would recover in time to wear that fancy new dress to the wedding, and that he wouldn't miss escorting her. If he went after Byron Krug, he almost certainly would not be able to keep that second promise. More importantly, he wouldn't be here to protect her if the newly free Krug or one of his hired goons came to Dodge.

He closed the drawer just as the door to his office flung open and Kitty rushed in. She had not gained back the weight she had lost, but her color was good and she was beginning to look healthy again.

"Matt, is it true?" she asked, clearly concerned.

"Is what true?"

"About Byron Krug escaping." What else would he think it was?

 _Damn it, Chester._ "Yes, it's true. I got the wire a little while ago."

"Do they know where he went? Is anyone looking for him?"

"I don't know the details," he replied. "Just that they are getting together a posse in Hays."

"Well, when are you leaving?" she prodded, slightly annoyed at his seeming lack of interest.

"I don't know that I am," he informed her. "I haven't decided what to do yet."

Kitty put her hands on her hips. "What do you mean you don't know if you're going? Matt you _have_ to go. I know you don't like to admit it, but you're the best tracker in the territory. You have a better chance of finding him than anybody."

Matt shook his head. "It's not my responsibility, Kitty. I arrested him, but legally he's their problem now. Jurisdiction was moved to Hays, remember? My only duty to this case was to testify, and I did that. Sort of."

"But he tried to kill you! Right here, in your jurisdiction. Isn't that worth a few days of your time?" She was getting angry now.

"Technically, Gordon hired that done," he reminded her. "Byron hasn't been charged with anything related to the poisoning that I'm aware of, so unless—"

"Oh, spare me the legal lesson," she chided. "What is really going on, Matt? A cold blooded killer is on the loose, and your reaction is, 'It's not my job?' When have you _ever_ said those words before? There have been times I would have given my right arm for something not to be your job, but that's not who you are. I have accepted that, and I have to respect the hell out of you for it even when I hate it. So please explain to me how a man you watched shoot an innocent customer in my saloon, who got his brother to try and get rid of you and ended up almost killing me and Chester—explain to me how _that_ is where you suddenly draw the line regarding your responsibilities."

Matt stared at the floor before meeting her eyes. She looked lovely, yet so small and vulnerable. "I don't want to leave you, Kitty. After what happened…"

Kitty felt her anger begin to melt away. "And I don't want you to leave," she said softly, taking both of his hands. "But it's the right thing to do. I'm fine, Matt, really I am—nothing bad is going to happen." She tenderly squeezed his hands and he squeezed back.

"I'll miss Grace Tatem's wedding," he said sheepishly.

"I'll save you a piece of cake," she offered with an enticing smile.

Matt smiled back at her. "Will you save me a dance in that fancy new dress? I promise I won't step on your feet."

"Don't go making promises you can't keep, Cowboy," she teased, letting go of his hands and putting her arms around his neck. He leaned down and kissed her lips ever so gently, then pulled her close to him. He had a long ride ahead, and he wanted to soak up every last inch of her until he got back.

TBC


	11. Chapter 11

The Witness

Chapter 11

"Kinsley"

It had been an unusually dry fall in Kansas, and the ground was hard. Matt unrolled his blanket next to the dying campfire and slipped on his heavy coat and gloves. Days were pleasantly warm when the sun was shining, but nights got down into the 40's.

He had made it more than halfway to Kinsley, not a record by any means but impressive given his late start. He knew this country like the back of his hand and had stopped at his regular spots for Buck to graze and drink. His horse was tied up nearby, taking a well-deserved rest. Lying under the stars, Matt figured his fatigue would win over the elements and he would be able to sleep well. He couldn't help but wonder where Byron was laying his head tonight, suspecting that it was somewhere considerably more comfortable than his own accommodations. A man born with a silver spoon in his mouth probably wouldn't know how to eat cold beans from a tin plate.

The information he had gathered was sparse, and there wasn't much more than speculation about where Krug might have headed after his clever escape. Playing to his strengths—lying, and pitching a fit—he had convinced a guard that he was in agony due to complications from his old gunshot injury, and when the guard bent down to help the man curled up on the floor, he grabbed his gun from the holster and knocked him out. With no one else on duty at the time, Byron had been able to quietly slip out of the jail and steal a horse tied up in front of a nearby saloon. A man stumbling out of the establishment at the time had seen it happen and thought the man was heading south out of town, but he admitted to being directionally challenged at the time and couldn't be positive.

Heading south would have made sense. With his brother in jail—Byron undoubtedly considered Gordon dead weight and a hindrance to the plan—his only living relative seemed to be his sister Rebecca, who still lived in Kinsley with her husband James Finley according to available records. All indications were that there was no love lost between Byron and his sister, but with no friends to speak of and few options to access his sizeable funds without the risk of getting caught, she might be his only hope. Gregory Hardy surely wasn't stupid enough to risk his career by harboring a wanted criminal, and Rebecca was his own flesh and blood. It was not hard to imagine that she could be talked into helping him escape the rope, especially if he managed to convince her that he was innocent.

Matt figured he would get there before the posse even though they'd gotten a head start on him. Kinsley was a good thirty miles farther from Hays than Dodge, and he was making good time. With any luck he would be there tomorrow by early afternoon. Kinsley made Dodge look like the big city, so chances of finding someone who knew Rebecca and could direct him to her house quickly were pretty good.

That had been his last thought before drifting off to sleep. The next thing he knew, the sun was rising and he felt well-rested to continue his journey. He broke off a large piece of jerky for breakfast and took a swig from the canteen he had filled at the spring where he had watered Buck. He then filled a bowl and made sure his horse was able to quench his thirst before they found the next stopping point. When he was finished, Matt saddled up and secured his supplies before heading off to Kinsley.

Thankfully, he continued to be blessed with good weather. By late morning the sun provided enough warmth that he was able to remove his heavy coat, which made riding less restrictive and more comfortable. Though anxious to get there, he made sure that Buck had proper resting time and enough to eat and drink. Aside from the obvious need to keep a horse healthy for riding, he had become quite attached to the animal.

It was just past high noon when Marshal Matt Dillon unceremoniously rode down Main Street, a name that humorously called attention to the size of the town. It housed a post office, general store, restaurant, and one saloon, and a horse could get from one end to the other in less than a minute. Matt had visited several times on business and was on a first name basis with some of its residents. The tiny Kinsley Post Office seemed like a good place to start in his quest to find Rebecca, so Matt tied up his horse and went inside.

Roger Parsons, with his toothy grin and back woods accent, could have been Chester Goode's brother. He recognized his customer right away and welcomed him warmly.

"Marshal Dillon! Now, what brings you to Kinsley this fine afternoon?" he wondered.

"Hello, Roger," Matt returned amiably. "I need to find someone, and am hoping you can help me. Her name is Rebecca Finley."

"Why sure, I know Mrs. Finley, and her husband too. Real nice folks. She ain't in any trouble, is she?"

"I certainly hope not," Matt responded. "I can't talk about it right now, but it's important that I find her as soon as possible. Can you tell me where she lives?"

"I sure can," he said helpfully. "Go past The Tipsy Cow Saloon on the corner and take a right. The Finley place is about a mile down the road. Little white house on the left, can't miss it. They have a couple of dogs that bark at strangers, but they don't bite.

"Thanks Roger," he said gratefully. "Say, have you noticed anything unusual the past couple of days? Any strangers come into town?"

Roger thought for a moment and shook his head. "No sir, not that I know of." He suddenly lowered his voice and leaned in toward the marshal. "What should I be looking for?" he asked inquisitively.

Matt wasn't in the business of starting rumors or needlessly worrying people. "Oh, nothing in particular," he said vaguely. "Thanks again for your help, I appreciate it."

"Any time, Marshal," Roger replied sincerely . Matt headed out to mount his horse and follow the only lead he had on Byron Krug's possible whereabouts.

The Finley house was exactly where Roger had indicated, complete with two barking dogs. Matt extended his hands and let each of them get a sniff. Apparently they were satisfied that the blended aroma of leather, jerky and horse was non-threatening and began to happily wag their tails. Matt briefly scratched their ears before walking up to the porch, his new friends trailing behind him.

He knocked on the door of the modest dwelling, thinking how this must contrast with her childhood home. There was no answer, and he knocked again a little louder. He couldn't swear to it but thought he heard muffled voices inside. Maybe they didn't open the door to strangers.

"Mrs. Finley? My name is Matt Dillon, and I'm the marshal in Dodge City. I was wondering if I could ask you a few questions."

This time he was certain he heard voices before the door finally cracked open. He could just barely see her face, but he knew right away that he had the right person. She bore a striking resemblance to Byron, the same light complexion and expressive brown eyes, but her features were less pronounced and much more attractive than Byron's. She did not appear happy to see him.

"What can I do for you, Marshal?" she asked in a tone that indicated she wasn't particularly interested in the answer.

"I'm sorry to bother you Ma'am, but your brother Byron escaped from jail in Hays two nights ago. Have you heard from him?"

She shook her head. "No, I'm afraid my brother and I have not been on good terms for some time. I doubt he would come here."

Matt knew the first part of her statement was true, but there was something odd about her behavior. He decided to press on. "Do you know of anyone who might be willing to help him hide out? Does he have any relatives other than you and Gordon?"

She shook her head again, this time more quickly as if she was trying to get rid of him. "No one to speak of. We have distant cousins in Boston, but we've never met them. Our parents' families were not close."

Matt nodded his understanding but was bothered by her demeanor. He didn't know Rebecca Finley so he couldn't say for sure, but she seemed either preoccupied or nervous. It was worth checking out.

"Do you mind if I come in and have a look around? It's standard procedure in these cases," he lied, trying to sound casual and hoping to get a foot in the door.

"Now is really not a good time," she answered quickly, offering no further explanation.

"I can get a search warrant," he informed her.

"Then I guess you'll have to do that," she responded flatly, slamming the door shut and audibly turned the lock.

Matt stood on the porch for several seconds, pondering his options. He _could_ get a search warrant, but how long would that take? His gut told him something was desperately wrong, and he didn't have time to find a judge.

The two front windows had their curtains drawn, and there was no way to peek inside. Matt returned to his horse and decided to ride out toward town, far enough that anyone watching would assume he was gone. When convinced that he was safely out of view, he secured Buck to a large branch and headed back toward the house on foot. He had a gun in his holster and pieces of beef jerky in his pocket, both potentially important if his instinct was right.

Matt began darting through trees and bushes, crunching brightly colored autumn leaves that had fallen in the thick woods surrounding the Finley property. As he approached the house from the back, he whistled ever so lightly. In the front yard, two pairs of slightly floppy ears stood at attention and took off running toward the solicitous sound. As he had hoped, the curious mutts did not bark as they headed toward the guest they had just welcomed a short time ago. He offered each of them a big, chewy piece of jerky, which they happily began gnawing.

Matt heard voices as he made his way toward a large window that had a noticeable space between the curtains. The voices were male and female, and they were clearly arguing. He backed up against the house and drew his gun before peering through the gap. Byron Krug was having an animated conversation with his sister, who appeared none too pleased with whatever he was saying.

Desperate men with nothing to lose didn't surrender without a fight, and Matt knew what he had to do. He could only hope that Rebecca stayed out of the way. He positioned himself in front of the back entrance and unleashed a single hard, explosive kick. The wood around the latch splintered as the door flung open, and both Byron and Rebecca jumped. "Hold it!" Matt yelled as Byron reached for his gun. Byron had never obeyed anyone in his life, and he wasn't about to start now. He proceeded to pull the weapon out of his holster, and it became the final act of defiance in a short, wasted life.

TBC


	12. Chapter 12

The Witness

Chapter 12

"Surprise"

Rebecca stared somberly at the crumpled heap on the floor that used to be her little brother. "I'm sorry, Ma'am," Matt said sincerely, those words being all he had to offer in cases such as this. He was still uncertain of her role in Byron's plans, but he had a feeling about her.

"I'm glad it was him and not you," she said quietly, distraught but with an obvious sense of relief. She looked at the marshal with kind, brown eyes that expressed the conflict she felt. "He was going to ambush you when he saw you coming up to the house before. I convinced him that I could get rid of you, that killing a lawman would get him caught for sure. He wasn't going to ruin any more lives if I could help it."

Matt nodded gratefully. "Why did you take him in, Mrs. Finley?"

"I didn't want to," she insisted. "He showed up in the middle of the night, scared me half to death. My husband is out of town covering a story and I didn't know what to do. He said he was being railroaded and they were going to hang an innocent man. I knew he was probably lying—it's what he did best—but he and Gordon, they're all the family I have…had. I was hoping that when James got home he could talk him into turning himself in. Honestly, I was afraid of him." Matt believed her.

"Will I be arrested, Marshal?" she asked.

"Not on my watch," he vowed. "You probably saved my life. I'll make sure the judge knows that."

"Thank you," she said with a sad smile.

Matt led her out of the house, away from the gruesome sight on her living room floor. She couldn't stay here, he would find her someplace until her husband came home. They used her buggy to ride into town, and Matt began the all too familiar task of reporting the killing to the proper authorities. Despite his best efforts at discretion, the small town was soon abuzz over the news. Not only was a prison escapee hiding out in Kinsley, but his sister was one of their own. Until now, no one knew that Rebecca Finley had once been Rebecca Krug, daughter of a millionaire.

When the posse from Hays arrived, Matt sent them to recover the body and bring his horse back. They had ridden all this way, they might as well do something constructive. Rebecca had no interest in a funeral under the circumstances, so he was turned over to a cabinet maker who also served as the town undertaker. He would build a nice box and see to it that Byron got a proper burial.

Rebecca had many friends, and it didn't take long for offers of hospitality to pour in. Matt saw her to a farm house not far from her own before heading to Drover's Cottage, the only hotel in Kinsley. He wasn't up for another night on the cold, hard ground, so he would leave early in the morning and get home well before dusk, weather permitting.

As the sun set on one hell of a day, Matt's thoughts wandered to what he was missing at home. The wedding would be starting soon, and Kitty was undoubtedly in the process of prettying herself up for the occasion. It was an endeavor that required very little effort, and he felt slightly envious as he envisioned Chester showing up to escort her to the church, Kitty making her grand entrance down the staircase and her date marveling at how lovely she looked. If life was fair, he would be pinning that brooch on her new dress right about now. But it wasn't, and he had one more broken promise to add to the list.

Matt was tying up his horse at Drover's Cottage just as the late afternoon stage from Great Bend came rolling to a stop. Two passengers exited and retrieved their bags, while a third stepped out to get a bite to eat while the driver headed to the livery to change horses.

"Hello," the stranger said politely to Matt, standing in front of the hotel. "Are you picking up the stage here? I sure would enjoy some company on the way to Dodge."

"No, I'm spending the night here and have my horse…" As he spoke the words, an idea popped into his head. Was it crazy? It was certainly impractical, inconvenient, and unnecessary. It was also the last thing she would expect from him. He could count on one hand the number of times he had done anything truly spontaneous in this relationship, and wouldn't need the whole hand at that. In a split second, he made the decision. They deserved this.

He had just enough money for the ticket and was lucky he didn't have to pay up front at the livery. With only one more stop to change horses before Dodge, he would be home in three hours. He would miss the wedding, but there was a good chance the party would still be going on. He just might get to see her in that dress after all.

GSGSGSGSGSGSGSGSGS

Dodge City looked almost deserted when the stage pulled onto Front Street. Most of the saloons were closed, and the ones that had stayed open might as well not have. They had joked that half the town was going to Grace Tatem's wedding, but from appearances it seemed to be the whole town.

Matt stopped by his office and checked the clock. By the time he changed clothes, arranged for transportation, and made it out to the Tatem place, the party would likely be starting to break up. But if anyone would be there until the very end it was his affable lady, who had made sure that he hadn't been able to leave a social event early in four years. He quickly slipped out of his dusty clothes and into his all-purpose suit, deciding that a bath would have been nice but there was no time. He splashed on some cologne and hoped it would at least partially mask the variety of scents he had picked up during the past couple of days.

Moss Grimmick's new hire was temporarily sleeping in the stable, which was good news for a man in need of a horse and buggy at this hour. Albert Simms had been in town for less than a week and had made a good impression on its residents as a hard worker and nice young man. He was well aware of Matt Dillon's reputation and was more than happy to help when the marshal stopped by to ask for a favor.

The crisp night air and promise of seeing his lover helped Matt overcome his fatigue on the ride to the Tatem place. There were a dozen or so buggies parked haphazardly around the property when he arrived, certainly dozens fewer than had been here earlier. He heard a jovial voice singing "Old Dan Tucker" to fiddle music as he approached the barn door, a happy indication that the party wasn't over just yet. He inconspicuously slipped into the large wooden building and quietly watched as she chatted with Grace, a perfectly lovely bride who was all but invisible to him. His eyes were fixed only on the vision in blue, her fiery hair flowing over the delicate lace outlining her freckled shoulders. His inconvenient, costly, spontaneous decision to come home tonight was already proving to be the right one.

As she tossed her head back for a hearty laugh, Kitty caught sight of him standing at the door, hands in his pockets, that boyish grin on his face. She was always relieved when he returned home safely, knowing with each goodbye that it could be the last. But somehow this time was different—she was the one who talked him into going after Krug, and if something had happened to him she might never have forgiven herself. She had trained herself not to show her excitement in public when they were reunited, knowing how it worried him. But she could hardly contain herself at this surprise appearance, leaving Grace in mid-sentence before finding her manners and quickly turning around to excuse herself.

The few stragglers on the dance floor seemed oblivious, no doubt aided by an evening of free alcohol. Still, she approached him cautiously, mindful of his constant concerns. Sensing the lack of interest in their little reunion, and frankly not giving a damn at the moment, he greeted her with outstretched arms and pulled her into him.

"I didn't expect you back so quickly," she said emotionally.

"Neither did I," he replied truthfully, squeezing her more tightly.

"Did you find him?" She was certain of the answer but needed to hear it out loud.

"I did. He's dead, Kitty. I'll explain later."

Kitty nodded silently. That was all the explanation she needed at the moment. This was a party, a cause for celebration, and there would be plenty of time later to go over the grim details. Byron, Gordon, the trial, the judge—none of that mattered right now.

"You look beautiful," he beamed as they finally let go, and he pulled a small box from his pocket. It had been there all week, almost forgotten in the whirlwind of concern and activity since he had rushed home to her side. He placed the box in her hand and she opened it.

"Oh Matt," she exclaimed. "It's beautiful."

"I bought it in Hays, before…" he trailed off, pausing for a moment. "I'm just grateful I still have the chance to give it to you."

She removed it from the box and handed it to him, standing straight as he unclasped the pin and placed it on her dress. She delicately ran a finger over the smooth shell, feeling the outline of the silhouette. "I love it," she proclaimed with a genuine smile.

The musicians ended a lively ditty to a smattering of applause, then announced that they would play one final song. "Fellas, grab your ladies and get ready to waltz." Several couples, including the new bride and groom and their parents, raised their arms and assumed the position.

"I believe you owe me a dance," Kitty reminded him playfully.

Matt raised his eyebrows, remembering his last pathetic attempt at keeping three quarter time. "A waltz? I don't think you know what you're getting yourself into, Kitty. You may regret this."

"I'll take my chances," retorted the woman who had always known exactly what she was getting herself into, and had never regretted it for a minute.

The End


End file.
